A Lone Rider
Hoofbeats spluttered over puddles of ink, horse and rider an indistinct black smudge on a gray horizon. A rain's steady drabble filled the wet twilight, thunder grumbling irritably in its distant caves. Altogether the surroundings were a landscape of general misery, endless in its murky expanse.
The sorrowful figure, man and horse made one solitary being, trodded over the muddy river underfoot, the remnants of a path. There was no guiding light in the monotony of cloud and water. The paint of the world had been washed away by the eternal storm; a delicate watercolor, smeared. And even then, with no apparent destination ahead of them, the travelers pressed forward with slow, determined purpose.
The hooded rider looked up to the sky above, cold tears tracing down his face. Where had the stars gone? The sun? He could not recall the last time he felt the warmth of a summer's day, the comfort of a hearth, the taste of a meal.
The world had plunged into darkness. Everyone, everything, was dead.
And yet, he lived. Somehow, he and his most faithful companion had survived even as the earth had dissolved into acid rain and black mud.
Or were they dead? He could only think as much, a single rider wandering a lone ghost in this forsaken abyss.